WILLOW
In the beginning, there was the Word.
And Wesley is now asking her to utter it. Not that she thinks he's God in any way, though the swooping in to save the day on his motorcycle was kind of on the hunky hero side, and boy oh boy Willow is glad that her mom doesn't have access to her thought processes because random Biblical quotes from a testament she wasn't supposed to have ever read would likely rate high on the what were you thinking meter. At least being in college meant she didn't get punished for her so-called rebellion any more. The worst she'd have to worry about is having her laundry privileges cut off.
He's still staring at her, waiting for her to answer. What was the question again? Oh. Yeah. I can stop him if I want to. Is he kidding?
"I wish…" Oh, crap, nothing ever good comes from those words. I wonder if he would think my vamp self is still lovely. "I mean, no, don't stop. I don't want this to ever---."
But he isn't waiting for her to finish, his mouth back on hers, leaning her back to the pillow that swaddles her so closely. Apparently, that is all he needed to hear, because he has resumed to swallowing her down, his mouth everywhere at once, his hands back beneath the hem of the shirt, burning, though she thinks that perhaps part of that is her fault.
He is touching her stomach, and Willow can feel her muscles go wonky, fluttering like a gossamer sheet in a frantic wind, a-tremble and awakened to dance at the request of his fingers. Then up, and up, and though she is kissing him back just as vigorously as he, she holds her breath because she knows what's coming next, knows what he wants. Is it wrong to want it back just as badly?
When the first brush against the lace comes, she decides she hates Victoria's Secret. The bra she'd thought so pretty is now in the way, and she starts to squirm beneath Wesley as her hand leaves his back to twist behind her.
"What are you doing?" he murmurs, pulling just far enough away for her to melt into the blue.
She tells him, but then his hand is encircling her wrist, so strong, stopping her.
"Please," Wesley whispers. "Let me?"
It's a question. Not a statement. A request. He's got to be the most polite lover she's ever had, which, OK, is officially two, but it's indicative of so much more than how he is in bed, will be, could be. It's indicative of the sort of man he really is.
Her assent means the absence of the heat of his body when he shifts his weight to leave her exposed and accessible. With his eyes never leaving hers, Wesley sets her hand gently to her side before coming to her throat and the topmost button. She shivers. She licks her lips. She waits.
She can't even feel the pressure of his touch as he undoes the buttons. All of a sudden, there is a quick rush of cooler air against her skin, and then another, and before she can count, they are all freed from their holdings, the fabric slipping down her sides to pool on the bed.
He looks away then, to consider the swells and valleys of her flesh, and in a moment of self-consciousness, Willow lifts her arm to cover herself.
"Don't." He refuses to allow her the simple modesty, and sits up so that each of his hands rests on her shoulders, tugging her up to join him. "You have nothing to hide," Wesley says. "Please don't think you have to hide from me."
Nudging the shirt from her torso, he lets it fall unnecessary to the mattress, his hands following its path to the hook of her bra at the back. She half-expects him to fumble with it, and is pleasantly surprised when the tension around her ribcage is suddenly gone before he even has to lean forward to look at what he's doing. Rogue demon hunting has unexpected bonuses.
But she doesn't want to think of how he could possibly be so good with women's underwear. She only wants to concentrate on the sensations of the here and now, and the slight tremble in his hand as he cups her breast. He'd called it making love, not sex, which had surprised her when she heard it, but as Wesley palms the swell, lowers his mouth to her shoulder, that is what it feels like.
It feels like healing.
That's when she realizes he's talking to her. Talking through his caresses. Murmuring endearments that only half make sense to her, words that are swallowed by her skin when he doesn't stop before tasting her again. Feeling bold, she begins answering him with her own encouragements, tentative at first and clumsy beyond belief, but when his body becomes more insistent, and she finds them entwined on top of the blanket with his leg jammed between hers rubbing against her sex, it's clear that he still likes it. He enjoys it, getting off on it just as surely as she is.
And her hands have to join the dance, massaging and kneading his back as he and she float from kiss to caress and back to kiss again. Willow wonders if all of Wesley is like this, so long, so lean, so hungry, and decides she must know, breaking from where she holds him to slip a limb between their sweating torsos. Down, down, down, just as he'd gone up, up, up, and she feels the wet proof, pushes past the cotton barrier, and takes his rigid length into her grip.
When she squeezes, he groans, so she squeezes again. He lifts his head then, and his eyes are black, and they're ever so hungry, and she thinks she has never seen such a beautiful sight as this man who so obviously wants her.
"Do you know what you do to me?" His voice is husky with wonder.
"I think you might've mentioned something," she replied. Her arm stretches sideways, fumbling at the nightstand until the sharp corners of the aluminum packet poke into her palm. "Is this the only one you have?" she asks, and holds the condom up between them.
His brow furrows. "Why?"
Her explanation is met with a widening smile, open and joyful and it makes him look so young. The answer she seeks prompts her to release her grip on his arousal, reaching up to tear the silver foil and to have the lubricated rubber slip into her palm.
Wesley's hand guides her back down, two sets of fingers working in tandem to slip the condom over his cock, all sticky and soft and hard at the same time. He stops when he's sheathed, but Willow doesn't, continuing downward to brush against the coarse curls and feel his heavy balls nestled between his thighs.
"We've got things in the way," she murmurs.
He stumbles for a moment, and then understanding dawns. She is floating when he rolls to the side to allow himself the room to shed the remainder of his clothing, but his touch quickly brings her back.
On her hip.
Inside the waistband of the green lace.
Across her pelvis.
Hesitating before slipping around to her bottom, driving its way between her and the garment still barring his path.
She claws at the sheets when he suddenly dips his mouth to the inside of her thigh, biting at the tender flesh before pulling away to remove the panties. But then he's back, and she is moaning his name because this has always been one of her favorite parts about sex. She's thought before that her oral fixation was way too reflective on how much time she's spent around vampires, but if she liked it before, she loves it now.
Because Wesley is good.
With a whole lot of extra o's thrown into that word. That's the only way to really give it justice.
Oh god.
Her head explodes in thousands of twinkling lights when she feels teeth on her clit, and she's writhing on the bed, but he holds her down, keeps his arm across her waist as he seems so intent to devour her, and maybe Wes has been too long around vampires, too. But she doesn't care, can't care, can't think. All she can do is let him carry her along.
WESLEY
When ideas fail, words come in very handy.
But he is teeming with ideas, and he has the words, but he must wait for Willow's because it is hers that will decide which idea gets acted upon.
He very much doubts Goethe ever found himself in the situation in which Wesley currently hovers.
"I wish…"
So ready to hear what she wishes, all he can understand is the pounding in his ears.
"I mean…" She's started over. Can that be good? "…no, don't stop. I don't want this to ever---."
But he stopped listening at don't stop. It rings and echoes inside his skull with the giddy explosion of a schoolboy bursting from the halls on the last day of classes, two little words that have opened far greater passages than he imagines Willow is even aware of.
It is his permission to resume kissing her, because he never wanted to stop, is fairly certain that he still doesn't want to and is entirely convinced that when the time comes to say good bye to her for real, he will regret ever allowing her to leave his bed. But that's not for now. Now is for tasting the confection of her skin, to memorize every square inch with every sense he possesses.
For he doesn't know when---or if---he'll be permitted such largesse again.
His hands steal beneath the hem of the shirt she still wears and finds the taut expanse of her stomach. He is about to seek further when the faintest of trembles beneath his fingers makes him hesitate. Her body is bowing beneath his touch, rippling in graceful waves unseen but not unfelt, and it cries out to him for more with a siren call he'd thought himself immune to, heady and intoxicating and sure to be his downfall. Or his salvation. He wants to believe the latter.
The temptation of more prompts him higher, to that scrap of fabric that had so transfixed him before her shower. How he wished he could see it on her now, but it seems much more imperative to get it off since it now stands in his way.
And apparently itches, because Willow is now squirming uncomfortably beneath him.
Wesley pulls back. "What are you doing?"
Her cheeks that are already so flushed from their kissing redden even more. "It's in the way," she says. "I'm taking it off."
He sees the hand reaching behind her body now, and stops it from going further.
"Please?" Show me I'm not mistaken about the trust. Permit me to savor this by having you burned into my skin. "Let me?"
For a moment, he thinks she doesn't understand his request. He just wishes to be the one to display her loveliness, to unwrap the beauty of the gift he's been granted for this one wonderful weekend. And then, she smiles, and his heart takes up the pledge yet again.
"OK."
He needs her to know she's right in giving him this, and never breaks eye contact as he rolls to the side to get out of the way of the buttons. Can she see me trembling? I won't hurt you, Willow. I don't have it in me.
One.
Two.
She shivers. He's accidentally brushed the inner curve of her breast.
Three.
Four.
Five.
She licks her lips. I could devour her. She must do that on purpose. Though he knows she doesn't.
And the rest fall away, just as the shirt does, and he has to look, he has to see, he has this inexplicable urge to count all her freckles.
Just as he's about to touch, Willow's arm lifts and bends, like she wishes to hide behind the slim protection it provides.
"Don't," but it comes out too quickly, too insistently. I must sound desperate. I must make her see.
So he sits up, and pulls her with him so that she can directly meet his eyes and believe what he is about to say. "You have nothing to hide." You're beautiful. What did he do to you? "Please don't think you have to hide from me." I see you. It's too late to hide. I see the loveliness that is you. I just wish you did as well.
He pushes off the shirt as he speaks, exposing her pale skin, and lets his hand follow. He who hesitates is lost. And he's no longer lost. She's found him. He must not hesitate again.
Though his agility often leaves something to be desired, Wesley has always been good with his hands. Pens, fine weapons, women's lingerie. None of it has bested him yet. It's one of two skills he prides himself on when it comes to the fairer sex. He can only imagine how poor his love life would be if he fumbled with bra hooks like other men.
But when the green scrap of lace falls, his trembling returns. He feels like he's back in sixth form, and he's dreaming of Helen Rhodes' breasts and the way she used to wear a flower tucked in her hair when she wasn't in classes. If he just touches Willow, it will make it real, all of it, the morning, the night before, the now.
"Sweet," he murmurs when he tastes her shoulder. Her breasts fits perfectly into his palm, just enough and oh so soft and hard, and his thumb brushes over the puckered nipple. "So sweet, like rhubarbs and custards…" And he goes on, more confident now because she's here, and she wants him, she said so, and she feels absolutely glorious in his hands, in his mouth.
They twist and turn, with words and groping hands, wrapping themselves in endearments neither fully comprehends. His body is buzzing from the tang of her, her breasts flattened against his chest as she tries to melt into his flesh, and at some point, Wesley manages to position his leg between hers, feeling the dampness of her pants even through his sweats.
When she starts riding him, it's almost more than he can stand, and he has to fight not to come right then. How long has it been since somebody wanted him so? Too long. Not ever, perhaps. She claws at him like she's desperate to find some sort of hold that will allow her to cling for longer than the few seconds their sweaty skin is allowing, and when he feels her small hand slip inside the waistband of his sweats, down the flat of his stomach to grasp his dripping cock in a firm squeeze, he imagines she's finally found what she is looking for. Or rather, what he could be looking for.
His groan incites another squeeze, almost a pulse, and he has to look at her, to prove to himself that this is really happening, that he's wrapped in the soft wash of Willow's skin and that she's right there with him, for all of this.
"Do you know what you do to me?" he whispers, though he thinks his voice sounds rough from disuse.
She smiles with the burgeoning acumen of a woman aware of her own appeal, and he thinks, I did that. "I think you might've mentioned something," she says. There is a pause, and then her free hand is stretching to the side, reaching for the condom on the nightstand and holding it up between them. "Is this the only one you have?"
He doesn't understand why she's concerned about the number of condoms he might own---isn't one enough?---and questions the reason for her query.
"Because I didn't know if I had to make this last," she says softly. "If this is our only shot, then that's OK, but if you have more…I don't have to wait. To feel you inside me."
If there were any remaining vestiges of doubt, her answer has now burned them away with the brilliance of a thousand suns. "No," Wesley replies. "I have more." The only disappointment his reply to her brings is the release of her hot little hand on his erection when she tears open the silver foil, but before she can reach back down to slip it on, he takes her fingers in his and guides her path to his cock. He wants her to know they're in this together, that this isn't about her giving him what he wants, or him giving her what she wants.
This is about giving to the other what they both need.
Her comment about things in the way when he's encased in the rubber confuses him for a moment, until he realizes she's talking about the remainder of their clothes. Yes. Mustn't be animals about this. This needs to be flesh to flesh, skin to skin, with nothing tawdry about semi-nakedness to tarnish it.
So, he quickly strips the rest of the way, tossing his sweats carelessly to the floor, and then turns to face the scrap of lace that is barely covering her hips. It takes even less time for him to divest her of the garment, but when her body is freed from its confines, the scent of her arousal assaults him with a ferocity that was only matched by her kisses, and he can't resist its pull.
Dimly, Wesley is aware of the sheet being clawed around them. That is only secondary to his focus, though. She lies open and waiting for him, glistening and delicate and ready, drawing him in to chase the juices that are escaping down the curves of her bottom. His ardor is agitated further when he hears her moaning his name. Is there anything more erotic than a woman who vocalizes her wants so basically?
He thinks not. At heart, he knows he is a man of simple pleasures, and it's the invisibility of Willow's allure that beguiles him so.
Her writhing beneath his tongue forces him to clamp his forearm across her waist, to keep her still while his teeth finds the sensitive tip of her clit. It's fascinating how the more excited human beings get, the more vigorously they fight back against the one providing the pleasure, though he knows the fight is more mock than genuine. Yet, she tries to buck him off even as she begs him for more, and it is Wesley's satisfaction to provide the response to both, a loosening of something primal in his gut as she allows him the space to unleash his instincts.
"Wesley," she pants, and her voice has taken on a more commanding tone, not the breathless mews of her rising desire but the cadence of someone who wants his attention.
Reluctantly, he lifts his head, sees her propped up on her elbows, her cheeks flushed with wonder. She doesn't say anything more, just crooks her finger like a wicked little girl, and he has no choice but to obey, to crawl up her body with his mouth taking minor detours along the way.
Her unabashed attack when their mouths are level makes him tighten his grip around her, hips lifting to meet, the tip of his cock poised at her entrance. Even through the rubber, he can feel her slick heat, and they both groan into their kiss as he sinks into her.
Oh my oh my oh my…
But beyond that, rational thought is lost.
They move in tandem, bodies rubbing together as if the contact will spark even more than already has. Every drive of his cock into her wetness has her clit forced against his pubic bone, eliciting louder and louder groans from her, soft whispers of more more more, frenzied clawing at his back that both stings and stirs. And he can't stop, won't stop, his murmured endearments that ached when they were trapped by his reticence to overstep the boundaries they'd placed now flowing as freely as water, pouring over both of them with the drowning need to get them out there.
He feels her come first, her mouth tearing from his as her back arches away from the mattress, and he can feel her lovely quim quivering around his shaft, undulating with the power of a velvet glove to draw him with her. Something inside him unravels at the notion that she is beckoning him to join her, that Willow wants Wesley not just as a temporary lover but at her side, that he's worthy of that place.
And he is lost again.
The world vanishes around him as he stiffens, his release coming over and over and over again. The only things that get through to his awareness are Willow's voice as she whispers in his ear and the soft glide of her hand over the nape of his neck as she coaxes him to finish.
Lost and found.
Yin and yang.
He shudders as the last tremble wanes.
His mouth drops to her shoulder, follows a damp path up the side of her neck, and he breathes in the scent of her before lifting his head. She gazes at him with wide-eyed wonder, as if she doesn't completely believe that they did what they just did. That's all right. Part of him can't believe that it has happened, either.
Tremulous fingers reach up to stroke the contours of his face, finally settling on Wesley's mouth. Her eyes are shiny when she asks, "Can I sleep here with you tonight?"
"Of course." He hadn't considered otherwise, but what concerns him now are the tears that are forming in the corners of her eyes. "Is something wrong?"
She shakes her head wordlessly, and stretches her leg to escape the weight of him. Embarrassed, Wesley pulls out, suddenly cold from the lack of her heat, and sits up to take care of the used condom.
"Thank you." She whispers it so softly that he thinks he's misheard her, but by the time he has turned to confirm what she's said, Willow has wrapped her arms around his waist and is resting her chin on his shoulder. Her slim fingers trace lacy patterns on his stomach that makes it flutter, and her warm breath tickles at his ear.
"I think I'm going to dream about you tonight," she says. "Are you going to dream about me?"
He captures her hand and lifts it to his mouth, turning it so that he can press his lips to her palm. "Always," he murmurs. And means it.